Battle of Lookout Mountain (13 page)

September passed with both armies again simply waiting—and growing hungrier.

And then General Ulysses S. Grant was assigned to command Rosecrans’s army. General Rosecrans quietly slipped away.

General Grant came to Tennessee, and the men saw at once that he was a different kind of general. When he arrived, the call sounded, “Turn out the guard for the commanding general!”

“Never mind the guard,” Grant said, and the guard was dismissed.

Grant rode along the lines of battle, saluting men, and when his cavalcade passed by the Washington Blues, Rosie said, “He don’t look like much, does he?”

Royal, standing beside Rosie, studied the small, nondescript figure of the new general. “He was tough enough to whip the Rebs at Vicksburg, so I reckon he’ll do the same here in Tennessee.”

Rosie continued to eye the general. “Had a dog once that looked kind of like him. He weren’t worth much in the looks department, but he sure was a humdinger on a cold scent. You’d turn that hound loose, and he’d die before he’d quit.” He studied Grant’s bearded face. “I reckon that general there is just about like that old dog of mine.”

That night, talk ran around the campfire about the campaign that was to come.

Ira Pickens remarked, “Seems like I’ve got to where I can smell a battle coming at us.”

Grant had seen to it that the rations had improved, and Ira took a bite of the roast beef that had been issued. “I can’t tell how bad it’s going to be, but I think those Rebs are pretty stubborn over there.”

Royal chewed thoughtfully, looking across the lines to where the Confederate army was settled into position on the high ridges. “I don’t see how anybody can climb up Lookout Mountain to attack them. The Rebels got their guns aimed right down
at us.” He looked to his left. “And there up on Missionary Ridge, it’s just about as bad. Pretty hard to fight a battle uphill, I’d say.”

“Well, I don’t reckon we’ll try to go right up the hill,” Ira said. “Maybe we’ll try to flank ’em—get around one side or the other.”

Drake sat back away from the fire, thinking as he ate. He had not made one remark about the military situation since he had run away.

As the men talked cheerfully, he thought again of Lori’s words on his last visit. Most of the young men in his squad were Christians. One or two were hard cases, as in any army, but they were more Christian than most groups. Looking about at their faces, he thought,
If they get shot and killed in this battle, they’ll be all right—if what the preachers say is true. I don’t know about me, though. I guess there’s not much hope for a fellow that’s lived like I have
.

Soon after the meal was over, Walter Beddows piled some more wood on the fire, and the talk turned to religion.

“I heard a preacher say one time,” Ira Pickens commented, “that any soldier got killed fighting for his country would go straight to heaven. What do you think of that, Professor?”

Every eye turned to Royal. He was the only one of the group who had attended college, and he was considered the final judge on matters where education was concerned.

“I’m no preacher—” he shrugged “—but I don’t think that’s true.”

“Why, of course, it ain’t true,” Rosie piped up. “We’re fighting for one side, and the Rebels are fighting for another side. We can’t all go to heaven
—somebody’s
on the wrong side.”

Royal said quickly, “I don’t think that’s the point, Rosie. Men have fought in all kinds of wars all through history, but the Bible says it’s not a matter of who we die for that settles that question.” He hesitated. “The Bible says, ‘You must be born again.’ As long as we get that right, I know we’re all right when we die.”

One of the new members of the squad, a squat, bearded man named Tyrone Johnson, asked, “But what’s that mean, Professor? I heard it all my life, but I still don’t understand it.”

“As I say, I’m no preacher, but I can tell you what that means,” Royal said. “It means that all of us sin against God. Then when we die, we have to stand in judgment for our sins.” He looked at the fire and then around at the faces highlighted by it. “But Jesus came so that we wouldn’t have to face a God of judgment. On the cross He took all of our sins on Himself. That’s why He died, Tyrone—so we could get forgiven and be what the Bible calls ‘born again.’”

Tyrone clawed at his whiskers. “I don’t see how that could be, though. Don’t see how a man dying thousands of years ago has anything to do with me.”

“I don’t understand it all either,” Royal admitted, “but I know the Bible says that when we believe in Jesus and call on God to forgive us, then somehow His blood washes us clean.”

Tyrone’s blue eyes glowed in the firelight. “I heard a song about that. Something about being ‘washed in the blood of the Lamb.’ Is that what that means, Professor?”

“That’s what it means, Ty. When Jesus died, somehow He made it possible for us to get our sins forgiven. That’s what I’m hangin’ onto.”

One by one several soldiers around the fire talked about where they stood. The squad had seen battle, but death in all of its ugly forms still lay before them, and most seemed well aware that they might soon be standing before God.

Drake took no part in the discussion, but the talk troubled him. It was all piling up—first, Lori’s talking about his need of God, and now most of the squad seemed to be saying the same thing.

Later on, when many of the men had gone to bed, Rosie plumped himself down by Drake. “I don’t think my liver is acting right,” the lanky soldier complained.

“It didn’t seem to hurt your appetite any.” Drake smiled, amused again by his friend’s many ailments. “You ate enough of that roast beef to supply the whole squad.”

“Well, a man in my pitiful condition has to keep his strength up.” Rosie held his side. “Somehow my liver don’t feel right.”

“I don’t think your liver’s
there
. I think that’s your heart.”

Rosie looked surprised. “Oh, then I’m having heart trouble instead of liver trouble. I have noticed lately that it’s beating sort of irregular. Maybe I better go to the surgeon again.”

“I don’t think he can help you. Maybe you better eat some more supper.”

“Aw, don’t be making fun of my ailments, Drake.”

The two sat in the firelight awhile longer. Finally Rosie shifted uneasily. “All this talk about gettin’ saved—it kind of bothers me.”

Drake looked over at his friend. “To tell the truth, Rosie, it makes me a little nervous too.”

“You think it’s right what the preachers say about heaven and hell?”

“I don’t know. But it’s bad news for us if they’re telling the truth.”

“Reckon
that’s
the gospel.” Rosie looked into the dying fire. The coals were almost golden. Picking up a stick he stirred them and watched the sparks fly upward. He looked beyond the sparks and said, “I reckon somebody made all them stars up there— they didn’t make themselves. It makes you think, don’t it?”

“Sure does.” He saw that Rosie was truly troubled. “Maybe you better talk to one of those other fellas about gettin’ saved.”

Rosie shook his head. “Naw, I reckon that wouldn’t be rightly fair to the Almighty.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, it don’t seem right. A fellow lives a pretty bad life, then—when it comes time maybe to end it all, like in this battle coming up—he goes running to God like a whipped puppy. Nope, I’ll wait until it’s all over—then I can meet God on a little better terms.”

Somehow Drake felt this idea was wrong, but he had no answers. “We’ll just have to see what it’s like after we die, I guess. But these fellas—” he waved a hand toward their sleeping squad members “—they all seem so
sure
that they’re going to heaven. Wouldn’t be a bad thing to know you’d be all right, would it, Rosie?”

For once Rosie seemed to have forgotten his ailments. He sat hugging his knees, staring into the fire, and saying no more. But his face wore a worried expression. The two men had been friends for years. They knew each other’s shortcomings. Drake was convinced that neither of them had any hope of heaven.

Now, as the guards called out faintly from the picket lines, the lonesome, mournful air about Rosie in turn made Drake feel almost desperate.

Still, there seemed nothing he could do. “Let’s get to sleep,” he said. “Maybe when we get through with this battle, we’ll be able to go to church and find out about this religion thing.”

The Jenkins house was packed almost to the walls. Soldiers from the Washington Blues were everywhere. Mr. Jenkins had decided to have Drake’s whole squad in for a meal, and now, looking around, he wondered if he had gathered enough food for this hungry group.

His wife and Lori scurried around in the kitchen. They had scraped the bottom of the barrel to find enough food, but fortunately they had one pig left. Mr. Jenkins had slaughtered it just that afternoon, and now the whole house was rich with the odor of pork chops, sausage, and frying ham.

Then Mrs. Jenkins said, “Well, it’s all ready. Let’s get it on the table.”

“I’ll ask some of the men to help us,” Lori said. She stepped into the parlor and said, “I need a little help setting the food on the table. Any volunteers?”

Instantly Rosie said, “I was a waiter once, Miss Lori.” He grinned broadly, his homely face alight. “Let me help you.”

“I’ll help too,” Royal spoke up. He pulled Drake to his feet. “Come on, Drake—let’s earn our keep.”

The three men went into the kitchen and, in a series of trips, loaded down the dining room table with platters of pork. Mrs. Jenkins had opened jars of home-canned vegetables, and soon the table was covered.

When all was ready, Mr. Jenkins said, “Now, let’s get around this table, ask God to bless this food, and eat it.”

The soldiers gathered around, some fifteen of them, and bowed their heads.

“It’s good to have all of you young men here,” Mr. Jenkins said. “I wish we could’ve had the whole regiment in, but this is as many as would fit.” He bowed his head then and said, “O God, we thank You for this food. We thank You for these young men who have left their homes to serve their country. We thank You for their lives, and we ask that You draw every one of them to Yourself—that not one of them would go into battle unsaved. We ask this in Jesus’ name.”

“That was quite a sermon, Pa.” Lori grinned at him and then smiled around at the soldiers. “My father always wanted to be a preacher, so he sneaks his sermons into his prayers.”

“Never mind that,” Mr. Jenkins cried out. “Grab a plate, fill it up, find a place, and then enjoy yourselves.”

The young soldiers were not in the least adverse to this. Soon they were scattered throughout the house, wherever they could find chairs, with plates of food on their laps. Lori and her mother circulated with glasses of tea.

Finally Lori got herself a plate and looked for a spot to sit down. She saw a place between Drake and Royal and headed that way. “I’ll sit here and listen to you two eat,” she said.

Royal laughed aloud. “We don’t get food like this very often.”

“That’s right, we don’t, Lori,” Drake said. “You and your mother are the best cooks I ever saw.”

“Yes, my mother’s a good cook. I’ve learned a few things from her.”

“How does she make these pork chops so tender—and so juicy?” Drake asked.

“Well, it’s fresh pork, for one thing, and she soaks them in a special sauce.”

“Tastes better than any pork chop I ever had,” Drake declared.

Across the room Rosie was talking to Mrs. Jenkins about his ailments.

“I guess I’ll be able to get by another day on this fine meal,” he said. Wagging his head sadly, he added, “My health’s poorly, you know.”

Mrs. Jenkins eyed the big, strapping young man, his face glowing with health. “I would never have guessed it, Rosie. What’s your problem?”

Rosie chewed thoughtfully on his pork chop. “Well, I guess maybe I hurt more all over than I do in any specific place,” he finally admitted. But then a grin crossed his lips. “But with pork chops like these I think I might make it through another day or two.”

The talk around Lori and Drake and Royal rose happily.

Lori said, “It’s nice to have your squad here.”

“I expect we’ll be moving out soon,” Royal said. “It’s good to have this meal together.”

After supper, the soldiers attacked the dishes, insisting that Mrs. Jenkins and Lori not touch a plate. Sergeant Pickens oversaw the job. When every dish was spotless and stacked in the cabinets, the sergeant came back with his helpers, saying, “All set. Now let’s have some music.”

Mrs. Jenkins went to the piano, and soon old songs echoed through the house.

Ira organized a quartet, and they sang all the songs they knew, which was two. When the group finished, he said, “Drake, now let’s have a song out of you.”

Drake protested, but Lori whispered, “Go on. God’s given you a voice—now use it.”

Drake reluctantly sang several songs and then said, “Now that’s enough solos. You all join in.”

Before long, Sergeant Pickens said, “I’ve got to get these galoots home.” He made a rather long speech, thanking the Jenkinses for their hospitality, then herded his men out.

Drake had time to say only a quick word to Lori. “This was a fine evening,” he told her. “Thank you for having us all.”

“I’m glad you could come, Drake.” She smiled up at him. “I’ll be praying for you. I know you’ve had a hard time, but God will be with you in the battle that is to come. I believe He’s promised me that.”

Drake gaped at her. “God’s promised you that? What do you mean?”

“I know what’s been bothering you, Drake. I’ve heard the stories.”

“So they told you how I ran like a scared chicken?”

“You won’t run anymore,” Lori said, and her eyes were bright. “I just know in my heart. God has assured me that you will be a fine soldier.”

Drake could think of no answer. “Good-bye,” he said.

As they were marching back, Rosie asked, “What did Miss Lori say to you there on the porch?”

“She said—she said that no matter what I’d done in the past, I’d be a good soldier.” He hesitated and added, “She said God told her that.”

“Well, if Miss Lori says it, I believe it,” Rosie said defiantly. He clapped Drake on the shoulder with his big hand. “Sometimes we sinners just have to go on the faith of the godly folks, so let’s just believe what Miss Lori says.”